


The Beginning in the Ending

by littlespider9



Series: The Path [1]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canonical Character Death, Friendship, Gen, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Battle Injuries, Probably inacurrate frontier-era medicine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 21:31:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21004481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlespider9/pseuds/littlespider9
Summary: Tossing another stick on the fire, Sam watched as a fresh wave of sparks flew up into the air. “I think we need to go back to Rose Creek.”The Mexican glanced at Red Harvest, who gave no indication he was listening. Finally, Vasquez sighed. “There’s no doctor in Rose Creek.”“True,” Sam agreed with a gentle nod. “Only people who trust us and owe us their lives.”--The trio returns to Rose Creek. Turns out, endings aren't always as final as they might seem.





	The Beginning in the Ending

**Author's Note:**

> Rewatched this highly unrated movie again recently and have been obsessing over this idea ever since.
> 
> Also, note that any italicized text indicates the characters are not speaking in English.

"_Senor _ Chisholm. Sam."

Vasquez’s voice broke through the silence that had fallen over the three riders. Above them, the sky was beginning to bleed red in a stunning sunset. Sam Chisolm glanced back at his Mexican companion to find Vasquez riding stiffly, holding his injured arm against his torso in an attempt to keep from jostling his bullet wound.

"_Lo siento _, my friend, but I've got to stop and do something about this arm."

Sam nodded, feeling a flare of guilt for not suggesting they stop earlier. He felt a bit like he was sleepwalking. When the dust cleared and the fighting ended, Sam had found himself standing in the middle of the street, surrounded by bodies like an angel of death. He’d just wanted to put as much distance between himself and Rose Creek as possible.

But of course, he hadn’t ridden off alone. Not this time.

Sam couldn’t be sure why Vasquez and Red Harvest had followed him. Maybe it was because they felt equally disturbed by the carnage that had once been Rose Creek. Maybe it was because he’d fallen into the role of de facto leader and they were still willing to follow him, for now. Heck, maybe they were both waiting for him to fall asleep so they could slit his throat, seeing as he’d left Rose Creek without any payment whatsoever.

Somehow, that last one didn’t feel right. Sam knew from experience that fighting next to another man and giving blood for them made it infinitely harder to then go and off them later.

“Let’s get off the trail a bit and I’ll take a look’it your arm,” Sam replied, scanning around them as he realized their youngest companion was nowhere in sight. “You seen Red?”

Vasquez shifted in his saddle gingerly as he, too, scanned the landscape. “Think he ran off?”

It was definitely a possibility. Sam still didn’t quite understand why the young native had hitched his horse to their wagon in the first place. He’d assumed Red Harvest was looking for a warrior’s death in battle. In that case, with the battle for Rose Creek come and gone, there really wasn’t much reason for Red Harvest to stick around.

Then again, maybe the young man had joined them because he was looking for a new tribe. After all, no one really liked being all alone in the world.

Sam had all but resigned himself to the fact that the native had gone when he and Vasquez crested the gradual slope they’d been riding the last quarter-hour and Red Harvest came into sight a little ways ahead, his speckled grey mare walking at an even, casual pace.

“Red!” Sam called out, cupping one hand around his mouth. He switched to his rudimentary Comanche. “_We need to stop and rest._”

Sam half expected the young man to ignore him and keep riding. Instead, Red slowed to a stop and nodded at him. He gestured to a midsized rock outcropping ahead and east slightly and Sam nodded back. The warrant officer clicked his heels, urging his horse into a faster trot.

Once they gained the rock formation, Vasquez dismounted and sat heavily as Sam rifled through his saddlebags, looking for anything they could use to stop the bleeding. As it turned out, he didn’t have much in the way of medicines. Sam had a clean shirt they could use for bandages and enough whiskey to sterilize the wound, but his little tub of all-purpose salve had gone empty without his noticing. Vasquez’s saddlebags didn’t reveal anything better.

“What’s wrong?” Red Harvest asked, dismounting his horse and heading straight for Vasquez.

Sam was kneeling by the Mexican’s side, ripping strips of cloth from his clean shirt. “Vasquez is still bleeding.”

At that, Red frowned and sank to his knees in front of their injured companion. He reached for the injured arm, but before he could actually inspect the wound, Vasquez jerked back out of reach. The Mexican frowned at Red Harvest appraisingly.

“What happened to your face?”

Sure enough, under his smudged war paint, the entire left side of Red Harvest’s face was beginning to swell. The lid of his left eye was swelling as well, probably due to the short gash that ran along the top of his cheekbone just at the corner of his eye.

Red simply reached for the beaded pouch that he wore slung about his waist and gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Denali.”

Realizing he wasn’t going to get more than that out of the young man, Vasquez looked at Sam. “What does that mean?”

Sam felt his own face harden into a frown. “Denali is a Comanche on Bogue’s payroll. He’s an assassin of sorts.”

“Was,” Red Harvest corrected darkly.

Before the older men could ask any other questions, Red reached forward and in a single, definitive motion, ripped open Vasquez’s sleeve to get at the wound. The outlaw let out a cry of protest which quickly turned into a curse as Red unceremoniously prodded at the wound. Sam patted Vasquez’s shoulder reassuringly as he watched Red assess the damage. “How’s it look?”

“_The bullet is still inside_,” Red muttered, slipping into his native tongue. He glanced at Sam. “_Do you have spirits?_”

“Whiskey, rags, just tell me what you need,” Sam responded, raising both his flask and the strips of what used to be his shirt.

“_Start a fire, heat some water,_” Red said, first peering into his beaded pouch and then glancing around them at the open terrain. Without another word, he strode back over to his horse.

Vasquez watched in confusion as the young man and his mare trotted away. “Where’s he goin’?”

“Gathering supplies, I think,” Sam replied, already scouring the area for kindling. 

Not fifteen minutes later, Red Harvest returned laden down with the bounty of the frontier, a bundle of herbs slung across his horse's back. In quick, practiced motions, he selected a long plant with tiny, white blooms and stripped the stem of all leaves. Snapping off a portion of the stem, Red held it out to Vasquez with an order in Comanche.

“You need to chew it,” Sam offered helpfully as he set about skinning and spitting the rabbits for cooking. “It’s for the pain.”

Vasquez raised a skeptical eyebrow and, instead of taking the offered plant, reached instead for Sam’s flask. “If you’re worried about pain, give me a drink.”

“No.” Red Harvest’s voice was firm, his usually stoic face grotesque in the firelight due to the swelling. “Drink thins blood. Chew.”

Vasquez still looked unsure, but at last took the weed that Red Harvest continued to thrust into his face. He chewed on the stem cautiously, watching as the young native pulled two small, roughly carved wooden bowls from his beaded pouch. Red filled one of the bowls with the little yellow blossoms of another plant, which he crushed into a paste with a small, smooth stone he also had stored in his pouch. He glanced over his shoulder at Sam. “Is the water ready?”

With a nod, Sam brought over a mug of the steaming liquid and then settled on the ground next to Vasquez, ready to help where he could.

Reaching into his pouch one more time, Red Harvest plucked out a small bundle of dried leaves which he held to the fire just long enough to catch a spark. He then dropped the burning bundle into his remaining bowl and moved it closer to Vasquez. Sam recognized the rich, earthy smell immediately. Sage.

Holding the bowl aloft, Red Harvest wafted the smoke with his free hand, directing it first over Vasquez’s head, then his chest, and then each arm. He lingered over the injured arm, wafting smoke over the wound again and again as he murmured in Comanche.

Vasquez, subdued by the apparent ritual, couldn’t resist whispering to Sam, “What does it mean?”

Sam couldn’t understand every word that flowed past Red’s lips, but he at least understood the sentiment. “It’s a healing prayer. He’s asking the Creator to give you strength and spare your arm.”

A complex mixture of emotions filtered across Vasquez’s face, though Sam could see how moved the man was. He wondered when Vasquez had last had anyone to pray for him or if he’d ever had anyone at all. But before he could linger on the thought, Red finished his prayer and wedged the still smoking bowl of sage into the dirt next to Vasquez so the cleansing smoke still wafted over the injured man. That done, he turned to Sam, who held out the water and a clean cloth.

Even with the yarrow root to take the edge off, the whole ordeal was excruciating. Vasquez did his best to hold still and keep from crying out, but Sam knew from experience that the feel of Red’s fingers digging around inside the wound to find the bullet was probably worse than getting shot in the first place. By the time Red managed to extract the bullet, the Mexican had gone pale and a cold sweat had broken out across his face.

And then the young man poured a generous amount of whiskey over the wound and Vasquez nearly passed out.

“Vasquez, you with us?” Sam asked, slapping the man’s face none too gently.

The outlaw blinked owlishly, though he didn’t move from where he’d slumped back against the rock formation. “_Presente_.”

“Good, let’s keep it that way,” Sam commented lightly, surprised at the sense of genuine relief he felt.

To Sam’s left, Red Harvest finished packing the wound with his yellow flower poultice and reached for the needle and horse hair he’d set out earlier. When the young man tried and failed once, twice, three times to thread the needle, Sam turned to really look at him. Watching Red blink forcefully several times and then try again to thread the needle, it occurred to Sam that his young companion was suddenly looking rather pale under his smudged war paint.

“Red?” Sam asked cautiously, as Red Harvest missed the eye of the needle yet again. “You okay, son?”

Red hesitated, frowning down at the needle before handing it over to Sam. The warrant officer raised an eyebrow at him but didn’t ask again.

“The wound needs stitching,” Red Harvest deflected. But the way he ducked his head and wafted some of the sage smoke over his own face told Sam everything he needed to know.

“I’ll do it,” the warrant officer offered, switching places with Red Harvest and threading the needle with ease. He made quick work of the stitching, thankful that Vasquez still too dazed to fidget much. It allowed the warrant officer to keep an eye on their young companion as Red dropped into a less than graceful sit next to Vasquez with an almost silent grunt of discomfort.

“_Where’d you learn all this?_” Sam wondered aloud in Comanche, suddenly concerned the young man might pass out on him.

Red hummed thoughtfully and leaned back against the wall of the rock formation. “_My father was a medicine man before…_”

He trailed off and Sam didn’t have the heart to press the kid for the rest of the story. Did his father die during the wars? Did the white man come and force them off their land? Pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind, Sam tied off the end of the stitches and cut through the remaining hair with Red’s offered hunting knife. “_I was indebted to a Comanche medicine man, once upon a time._”

That seemed to rouse Red some and he cocked his head at Sam in curiosity. “_He was the one who taught you Comanche?_”

“_He taught me Comanche and saved my life_,” Sam replied, indicating Vasquez’s wound with a thrust of his chin. “_We all done here?_”

Red shook his head but seemed to immediately regret the action has his eyes slid shut and his breath left him in a hiss. He took a second to collect himself and then gestured with one hand to the bowl with the remaining poultice. “_Use what is left, then bind it up._”

As directed, Sam smeared the remaining yellow mixture over the top of the suture and wrapped the whole thing up with a strip of fabric. As he worked, Red Harvest added the discarded yarrow blossoms to a cup of warm water and roused Vasquez.

“Drink,” the young man ordered softly, pressing the cup to Vasquez’s lips. Compliantly, the Mexican drank and seemed to revive somewhat. Red Harvest looked pleased. “You will heal well.”

“_Gracias_,” Vasquez managed, his breath hitching as Sam synched the bandaged as tight as he could.

“Alright, medicine man,” Sam said, tossing a scrap of fabric at Red Harvest, “your turn. Wash off your paint so we can see what we’re dealing with.”

To Sam’s surprise, Red was a fairly compliant patient and did exactly what he was asked. Without his paint, his face looked even worse. The gash under his eye wasn’t very large, but it was the obvious source of the swelling, the skin around the edges of the cut darkened to a deep burgundy. His swollen eyelid bulged disturbingly and Sam when pressed a finger to the swollen area, Red jerked away with a sharp hiss.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it looks like your friend Denali poisoned his blades,” Sam concluded with a sigh.

Red frowned. “Not my friend.”

“It’s an expression, son.”

Vasquez seemed the most concerned of the three, pushing himself more upright. “What do you mean, poison?”

“Snake venom, most likely,” Sam replied, rocking back on his heels. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything in that magic pouch of yours for snake bites, now, would you?”

Red didn’t answer, blinking down at the patch of dirt between his feet several times. Vasquez shifted nervously and nudged the young man with an elbow. “Red? What’s going on?”

Red Harvest took a slow breath in through his nose and mumbled something in Comanche. The words weren’t familiar to Sam, but given his experience with snake bites, he was willing to hazard a guess. Sam pressed his first two fingers against the pulse point in Red’s neck. “His vision’s probably goin’ all sideways. His heart’s racing.”

Sam grasped Red Harvest’s shoulders at the base of his neck and squeezed gently. “Red, you gotta stay with me, son. I’m gonna have to open up the cut some more and see if we can’t get some of that poison out. But that’s as far as I can get myself. How would your father treat a snake bite?”

The young man frowned as though he were trying to remember. “_Bleed the wound._”

"That’s right, I’m gonna bleed the wound.” Sam nodded, squeezing Red’s shoulder again ever so slightly. “Anything else?”

“_Wash out the wound,_” Red added after a second, licking his lips as though his mouth had suddenly gone dry. “_Wash it out with warm water. And, uh, tobacco._”

“Tobacco?” Sam definitely hadn’t heard that one before. Vasquez sat up a little straighter at the recognizable word.

“_Make a paste with the dried leaves,_” Red murmured, fumbling through his medicine pouch with one suddenly clumsy hand. “_Don’t have any, though._”

Vasquez climbed to his feet, albeit a little unsteadily, and headed to his horse. “I’ve got some.”

\--

Sam was up at the first light of dawn, building the fire back up to boil some water for coffee. He figured that after the events of the previous day, at the very least they all deserved something warm to shake the sleep from their bones.

The warrant officer was also man enough to admit that he couldn’t have slept even if he wanted to, too concerned by Red’s sudden turn for the worst. The night before, Sam had done his best to bleed the wound and cut away as much of the affected flesh as he could without completely mutilating the young man’s face. He’d then cleansed the wound, sewed it up, and then smothered the whole thing in a paste made from the leftovers of Vasquez’s chewing tobacco stash.

At first, Sam’d been encouraged when Red slipped quickly into a deep sleep, hoping the rest would help the young man’s body heal. But when the night was half gone and Red still hadn’t moved, Sam had developed the irrational fear that Red would slip off in the night on them, another victim of Bogue’s greed. The warrant officer didn’t get much sleep after that.

When Sam’s companions finally roused, Vasquez looked better. Red Harvest did not.

The swelling around his eye was worse, distorting one side of his face and making Sam thinking of drowning victims, the way their faces bloated from the water. Red’s usually vibrant complexion turned ashy with only his cheeks retained any color, flushed pink with the same fever that sent beads of sweat rolling down the side of his face.

The young native literally startled himself awake with a full-body tremble. He blinked at Sam briefly before pulling himself to his feet and stumbling off into the brush with a clumsiness that Sam associated more with a drunken Faraday than the nimble-footed Red Harvest.

Vasquez passed their young companion on his way back from taking care of his own needs and raised a questioning eyebrow at Sam. The warrant officer merely shook his head and offered the Mexican a steaming cup of coffee. Vasquez sighed in contentment into the warm drink.

“Where are we going?”

There it was again, that blind and somewhat baffling acceptance of Sam as their leader. The warrant officer shrugged one shoulder, scratching at the back of his head. “Dunno yet. It depends.”

“Depends on what?” Vasquez wanted to know, but then Red returned to camp. He seemed a little steadier on his feet than before, but it didn’t matter much as he immediately took a seat as close to the fire as he dared, legs tucked up against his chest and shoulders hunched up to his ears as though he were trying to conserve body heat.

Looking at the huddled posture, Sam wondered for the first time just how young Red Harvest actually was.

Vasquez was eyeing the young man well, taking in his huddled posture and flushed cheeks. The outlaw raised his hand, hesitated, and then in a bold move even Sam would have reconsidered, gently pressed his palm to the non-swollen side of Red’s face.

Red flinched at the sudden contact but didn’t pull away. Vasquez let out a long whistle. “You’re burning up, _ hermanito_.”

The native merely grunted in acknowledgment and huddled further into himself as another tremor wracked his body. Vasquez looked over at Sam.

“It’s the snake venom,” Sam sighed. “Would’ve been better to treat it sooner. He’s just gonna have to sweat it out.”

“Out here?” Vasquez glanced around them at the open landscape and took a contemplative swig of his coffee. “Maybe we keep going, find a doctor.”

That definitely caught Red’s attention. “No doctors.”

“Wouldn’t matter even if we found one,” Sam agreed, staring into the fair. “White folk doctors, well, they’re not likely to treat someone who looks like Red or me.”

Vasquez looked like he wanted to argue, but after a sidelong glance at Red Harvest, he distilled all his frustration into a single dark curse in his mother tongue. He spat violently into the fire.

Sam chewed on the inside of his mouth, weighing their options. With their limited supplies, they’d done all they could for the kid. And it was really only a matter of time before their odd little trio of a black man, a Mexican, and a native drew unwanted attention.

Tossing another stick on the fire, Sam watched as a fresh wave of sparks flew up into the air. “I think we need to go back to Rose Creek.”

Across the fire, Vasquez raised an eyebrow questioningly. “_Que? _”

“We- I shouldn’t have ridden out like that, without any supplies or destination in mind,” Sam admitted, somewhat relieved to get this guilt off his chest. “We should have stayed and helped rebuild, we should have buried our dead.”

The Mexican glanced at Red Harvest, who gave no indication he was listening. Finally, Vasquez sighed. “There’s no doctor in Rose Creek.”

“True,” Sam agreed with a gentle nod. “Only people who trust us and owe us their lives.”

Sam could see the gears in Vasquez’s head turning as the outlaw thought it over. Looking over at Red again, Vasquez nodded. “Okay, _ si_, we might be safe there. Can he ride like this?”

As disoriented as he seemed, Red could tell his honor was being challenged. He raised his head slightly to glare in Vasquez’s direction. “I can ride in my sleep.”

“I’m sure you can, son,” Sam chuckled as Vasquez shook his head in exasperation.


End file.
